Suffering I can

 Suffering I can. And I live love. No deceit. Only silk. Tell me now if I am relief from open wounds. You say I'm invisible. That I am useless to look at the face of the night while the nights ride, come back, ride, ride away in front of their long tails, blind nights of despair. You say that they tell prodigies of pilgrim places, of doors with eyes, where Nothingness appears to be nothing, and besides, irrelevant.

Senso, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.